


A Fine One-Handed Figurehead

by TheAuthorman



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 10:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1645538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAuthorman/pseuds/TheAuthorman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh, yes, a fine one-handed figurehead he will make,” spat Nahuseresh. Then he remembered Attolia’s flattery earlier that morning. “Or do I insult your lover?” he asked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. With A Word

She doesn’t know when it started. Neither of them knows why. All she knows is that one night she is huddled amid her bedcovers, staring out at the darkness outside the circle of the candle at her bedside, wondering if he’s lurking in the shadows just beyond her vision. “Show yourself,” she calls, feeling suddenly foolish, like a child looking for monsters under the bed.

She feels suddenly vindicated when he steps out of the darkness to stand at the end of her bed, one hand resting against his side, the other swinging lifelessly. She raises an eyebrow in that carefully conveyed expression of surprise he loves so much that he’s copied it. “How long have you been here?”

His lips curve in a slight smile. “Here in your bedroom or in Attolia proper?”   
“Both.” She knows she won’t like the answer either way.   
“An hour and six days, respectively.” He watches her, waiting for shock, horror, consternation, some kind of response. Her blank mask and a neutral “I see” is all he gets. 

He pouts.

“Why?” That’s the question that stumps them both. Why is he here? I cut off his hand, she thinks. He should be running to the ends of the earth to get away from me.   
“Why?” She asks again, locking eyes with him. He shrugs, the motion looking odd because only one of his hands actually moves.  
“I was hoping you could tell me that.”

She opens her mouth to say something, then snaps it shut, considering. Then, noiselessly, she crooks a finger. He moves closer and she lays a hand on the side of his face. He shivers and something settles back into place. Then he leans forward and kisses her and her world comes crashing down. 

She stares at him in wide-eyed shock as he breaks the kiss.  
“I could have you beheaded.”  
He nods. “With a word. But we both know you won’t.”  
Before she can say anything, he continues. “We’ve been conversing – if you can call it that – for at least five minutes. At any time, you could have called in a guard, an attendant, someone. Yet you haven’t. And I think you know why.”

Her cheeks burn.


	2. Not a Breakfast Person

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eugenides is gone when she wakes.

Eugenides is gone by the time she wakes. His hook is collected from her nightstand and his clothing is collected from the floor. His side of the bed is evenly turned down, or as evenly turned down as it can be with her on the other side of it.  
  
She doesn’t know why that stings as much as it does. After all, what was she going to do if he’d stayed, offer him breakfast? She shakes her head and rises, calling for her attendants. 

They come in one after the other and quickly set to their tasks. Two of them take up the chore of putting her bed to rights while Phresine ushers her into the chair facing her mirror. She reflects on the night before as her attendants go about their duties. Then, finally, she is alone. 

It is only then that she notices the earrings. They’re the exact antithesis every other pair she owns. Instead of the ostentatious, dangling things she is used to (the bees come to mind), these are small, square-cut rubies encased in gold.

She tucks them into the drawer set in front of the mirror. She’ll make a show of finding them later, but for now it’ll just be their little secret. 

She knows she won’t have to feign the anger or the fear in front of her attendants, though. Both of those emotions are – _were_ – real, then as now. She’s angry at her guards for creating a hole for him to get through and angry at herself giving in to him. 

She cut off his hand, after all. 

Besides the anger, there’s the ever-niggling fear of a thief in the night. _If he can place things in my room with impunity, what can he take away? What has he already taken?_

The thoughts chill her to the bone and she rises and moves to the window, pulling it shut. When she leaves her rooms to go to morning court, she instructs her guards and her attendants to keep the window shut.

If he wants in tonight, he’ll have to find another way.

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope this wasn't super OOC. If it was, I apologize.


End file.
